Invasive Procedures Read online

  “Rosa!” said Wyatt. “Buenos días! Mom burnt the pancakes.”

  Monica playfully shook a finger at him. “Hey, be grateful I only burned one side.”

  Wyatt grinned and took a big, drippy, syrupy bite. Immediately his face went sour. “This pancake is weird. It’s like there’s dust in it.”

  “Dust?”

  “Dry places. Uck.”

  Before Monica could stop him, he spat a half-chewed mouthful back onto his plate.

  Monica’s shoulders sunk. “Well, so much for that.”

  “I make him eggs?” said Rosa. “He likes the scramble egg.”

  A moment passed before Monica said, “Yes, thank you.”

  Rosa must have understood or sensed something of how bad Monica felt. Because she reached over and patted Monica on the forearm—not condescendingly, but kindly, reassuringly—and said, “Oh, no thank me, Señora Owens, is my job. I should be thank you. If you no give me the grocery money, we would have no eggs and Wyatt go school hungry.” She smiled. “And you have nice frying pan, good stove—easy to do right because you have everything ready.”

  Monica nodded. She would have answered, but as she was about to speak, she could feel in her throat that it would come out as a sob.

  Again, Rosa apparently sensed not only what Monica felt, but why.

  “You are good mother, Señora Owens, very good. Wyatt is lucky little boy to have mother like you.”

  Monica wanted to say, Yes, what a fine mother I am for having a frying pan I can hardly find myself.

  Soon Wyatt was eating a plate of scrambled eggs with shredded cheddar cheese on top. Just like he liked it. Cooked by Rosa, of course.

  “Just so you know, Wyatt,” Monica said, “I am secretly an excellent cook. I used to cook all the time for your dad.”

  “Maybe that’s why he left,” said Wyatt.

  The words froze her to the heart.

  Rosa, too, understood what this meant. She was already washing the frying pan, but she stopped at once and turned to look at Wyatt, probably unsure whether it was her place to rebuke him when his mother was present.

  Only Wyatt was clueless. He turned around, grinning. He must have thought he had made a joke.

  Of course he saw at once that he had made a mistake, from the look on Monica’s and Rosa’s faces.

  “I didn’t mean . . . I was just—”

  “You were just joking,” said Monica. “I understand that. But your father and I got a divorce. That’s why he left.”

  “I know,” said Wyatt. “He told me that it wasn’t your fault. Nobody’s fault.”

  Nobody’s fault—yeah, the guy who had a mistress for the whole last year of our supposed marriage, he would say that it was “nobody’s fault.” But Wyatt couldn’t know that everything he said was only making it worse. Besides, it was the parents’ job to shield the child, not the other way around.

  “Oh, Wyatt, it probably was my cooking. At least you had the sense to spit it out!” Then she tickled him and he laughed.

  He was still cheerful later at the door as he got ready to set out with Rosa, who walked with him the few blocks to school. Monica helped him on with his jacket—so small a thing, his jacket, and yet so much bigger than his clothes used to be—and gave him a hug and a kiss.

  Then Wyatt faced Rosa and the two of them clasped hands and bowed their heads, as if in prayer, but not saying anything aloud.

  Monica had no idea they did this. And her puzzlement must have shown on her face, because Rosa looked a little embarrassed afterward, and Wyatt looked at her and said, “Rosa says a prayer about me, and I say, God bless Mom and Dad and Rosa, and keep us all safe. Only I just say it in my head.”

  “Well, that’s . . . very nice,” said Monica. She didn’t mind at all. It was a good thing for them to have that custom. And if Monica had her doubts about God, she also had doubts about her doubts . . . it wasn’t as if she knew there wasn’t a God, either. And Rosa wasn’t having him do anything particularly Catholic, like praying to a saint or fingering a rosary, anything Monica would disapprove of. And it was obviously a ritual that meant something important to Wyatt.

  If I had been home, Monica thought, I wouldn’t have done that. And yet, it was clearly something Wyatt needed before he went to school. Rosa had been the one to see that need and devise a way to satisfy it. Just as she had been the one to cook breakfast. The breakfast that Wyatt preferred.

  Monica was glad that Wyatt had Rosa. So glad that she could hardly drive up the PCH to the clinic for the tears that kept clouding her eyes. Stupid, irrational tears.

  She was actually early to the clinic. So her first scheduled appointment wasn’t for a while yet.

  “Good morning, Dr. Owens.”

  Monica looked at the receptionist. It was the new one. The bubbly one. What was her name? Kathy? Katie? “Good morning. Is Dr. Mankewitz in yet?”

  “Dr. Mankewitz began his vacation today,” she said, giggling. “Looks like it’s just you and me today.”

  Monica smiled. Lucky me. “I’ll be in my office. Let me know as soon as my first appointment arrives.”

  “Actually, he’s already here,” the receptionist said, handing Monica a folder.

  “I didn’t see anyone in the lobby.”

  “He insisted on waiting in a room. I tried to explain our policy, but he said he needed a place to lie down.” She shrugged. “He’s in room two.”

  Monica quickly opened the folder and headed down the hall—she’d lecture the receptionist on letting patients in early later. As she turned the corner and approached room two, however, she stopped in her tracks. The name on the patient questionnaire she was holding said Mickey Mantle. She checked the file tab: Mickey Mantle. Was this someone’s idea of a joke or a legitimate coincidence? She quickly scanned the rest of the file and saw that Mantle, or whoever he was, was a new patient and had given them very little information. No address. No contact information. Even his age was a mystery. In the designated box he had written, “old enough.”

  Monica reached the door and opened it. Mantle wasn’t lying down. He was at the window, tapping the glass. “Mr. Mantle?” Monica said.

  He looked at her and smiled warmly. “You have hummingbirds.”

  He was a rather fit-looking man in his late sixties. Thick white hair, trim white beard, and he wore a conservative gray suit with a red handkerchief in the breast pocket and matching red necktie.

  “Yes, I put those feeders in myself,” she said.

  He tapped the window again. “Fascinating creatures.”

  “The receptionist said you wanted to lie down. Are you feeling ill, Mr. Mantle?”

  “Galen,” he said, turning to face her again. “George Galen. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He took her hand and shook it vigorously. “I’m not in the habit of giving receptionists my real name. I hope I didn’t startle you.” Then he chuckled softly as if it had all been done in good humor.

  Monica grinned, not sure how to take it all. “I see. All right. Are you feeling ill, Mr. Galen?”

  “Me? No no no no. No, I’m fine. Fine. Fit as a fiddle. At least, I hope so.” Then he patted his stomach like Santa Claus.

  Or maybe Monica only thought that because he looked like Santa Claus. Only thinner. “Well, I hope that’s true,” she said. “I’m Dr. Owens.”

  “Oh, I know who you are, Doctor. I’ve researched your career extensively.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, and you’ve got quite the impressive résumé, too. Top of your class at Stanford. Top of your class at Duke Medical. The highest evaluations during your residency and cardiothoracic training. A staff position at the Heart Institute at St. John’s Health Center here in Santa Monica. Then a director’s position, which you resigned after your divorce. And now you’re here, in one of the smallest but most respected cardiology clinics in Southern California.”

  “Wow. I don’t know if I should be frightened or flattered.”

  “Flattered. I value
my heart, Dr. Owens. If someone’s going to be tinkering with it, I might as well get the best.” Then he smiled and sat down on the edge of the examining table.

  “Well, hopefully no one will need to tinker with your heart at all, Mr. Galen. If you’re as fit as you say you are, you won’t need my help.”

  “Oh, I need your help. I’m sure of that.”

  Monica tucked the file under her arm. “All right. What seems to be the problem?”

  “I need a heart transplant.”

  Monica raised an eyebrow. “A heart transplant?” Galen had said it as calmly as if he were ordering a glass of water. “That’s a pretty severe diagnosis, Mr. Galen. Normally a transplant is a last-resort procedure. It’s a very risky operation. If you’re fit as you say you are, I’d strongly advise against it.”

  He smiled again. “Oh, it’s not for me. It involves me, yes. But the transplant is for someone else. I’m just the donor.”

  “I see.” Monica knew where this conversation was going. Anyone who needed a new heart was placed on a special waiting list. A long waiting list. In fact, last year nearly eight hundred men, women, and children in America had died while waiting for a suitable donor heart.

  And the worst part of Monica’s job, the most gut-wrenching, painful experiences of her life, were the moments in which she had to tell a patient and his or her family that a heart would not likely be found in time. There was always hope, yes. But at this point, hope was slim.

  The reaction was always the same: tears, grief, confusion, anger. Why wasn’t the hospital doing more? We’ve waited so long, why hasn’t one come through yet? You mean you’re just going to do nothing?

  Then the anger passes. And in its place comes desperation. Like the time last year when the patient’s sister cornered Monica at the hospital. “Take mine,” she had said. “I want you to take my heart and put it in my sister. We have the same blood type. We come from the same parents. Her body won’t reject it. She can have it. I want her to have it. Please, I beg you to take it.” And then Monica cried, just embraced that woman and cried like a baby. Because they both knew she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t kill one person to give life to another.

  And now here was this old man, sitting on her examination table, asking her to take his heart out. Who was it for? His wife? His son? A lifelong friend, perhaps?

  “Mr. Galen, I’m truly sorry for your loss. I really am. But I cannot take the heart of a living person and put it into someone else. By doing so I’d forfeit my right to practice medicine and subject myself to severe criminal prosecution. It’s against the law.”

  Galen didn’t flinch. “I thought you’d say that. I anticipated it, in fact. And I respect your integrity. I really do. It’s one of the reasons why I chose you in the first place. You’re a kindhearted woman.”

  Monica didn’t know how to respond, so she simply nodded. At that point she expected Galen to stand up, express thanks for her time, and leave. But he didn’t. He just sat there, staring at her.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked.

  “I’m a very determined man, Dr. Owens. And I value my life greatly. I wouldn’t be asking you to do this if I didn’t think it would help me and all of mankind.”

  Help mankind? Suddenly Monica felt uncomfortable.

  “You may think I’m incredibly self-centered by saying so,” he said, “but I’m a very important person, Doctor. The preservation of my life is my highest priority.”

  Monica nodded. “Mr. Galen, I don’t mean to sound condescending, but donating your heart will not preserve your life.”

  Galen chuckled. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes. You’re looking at me and thinking, This old man has got to be sniffing gas fumes. But don’t worry, Doctor, I won’t hold it against you. If I were in your shoes, I’d think I was crazy too.” He hopped down. “That’s why you have to see everything for yourself. Unless I show you, you’ll never believe it. Being a doctor, I think you’ll appreciate what I’m doing.” He opened the door and waited for her.

  Monica stood there. “I don’t understand. You want me to come with your?”

  “Of course. I have a car waiting.”

  For a moment Monica was speechless. This man really was crazy. “Mr. Galen, I can’t go anywhere with you. I have other patients to see, other appointments. I have to stay here. It’s my job. But I will happily recommend another doctor.” She pulled out her prescription pad and started writing. “He’s a friend of mine. I’m sure he’d be very interested in talking with you and learning more about whatever work you’re doing. This is his office number. You can tell him I sent you.” She tore off the paper and handed it to him.

  He looked at it. “Let me guess, a shrink?”

  She smiled politely.

  Galen folded the paper slowly. “Dr. Owens, I’m a civil human being. I respect the mind and talents of intelligent people like yourself. I know you only have my best interests in mind. So I won’t get annoyed. But you should understand that my asking you to accompany me is not an invitation.”

  Monica stiffened. He was threatening her. And what was worse, he was blocking the only exit. I have to get out, she thought. I shouldn’t be alone with this man. He’s obviously disturbed.

  “I see,” she said. “Forgive me if I gave offense. It was not my intention. Allow me to speak with the receptionist and see if I can cancel the rest of my appointments.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said.

  “I’d hate to leave my patients waiting. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She moved toward the door, and instead of trying to stop her, Galen stepped out of the way. She hurried down the hall and was looking over her shoulder at him when she turned the corner and bounced off something. A man. A very large man. Abnormally large. Built like an ox, wearing all black. He looked down at Monica but didn’t move.

  “This is my associate, Stone,” said Galen, moving down the hall toward Monica and introducing her to the giant as casually as if they were at a dinner party. “He won’t harm you.”

  Monica backed away from Stone, her heart hammering.

  “We’re not here to frighten you,” Galen said. “I’m only asking you to do what you do every day of your life.”

  Monica looked past Stone and saw the receptionist lying on the floor, not moving.

  “What did you do to her?”

  “A mild narcotic,” said Galen. “She’s sleeping. She’s not hurt. In fact, when she wakes up, she won’t even remember having fallen asleep. Or having talked to me. Or having seen you. Her memories of the last few hours will simply be absent from her mind. So rather than be alarmed, she’ll feel right as rain. And instead of notifying the authorities, she’ll go about her business same as always. Because in her mind, you never came into work today. And if we’re all adults about this, no one will get hurt. No one but me, that is.”

  Monica saw the used syringe in Stone’s hand and backed away from him until she reached the wall. “Stay away from me,” she said.

  Galen held his hands up, palms out, in a calming gesture. “You’re not in danger, Doctor,” he said. “I only ask for your cooperation. We will not harm you. I only need your talent for a very important procedure. One that will, if effective, revolutionize medicine. I’m giving you the opportunity of a lifetime here, Doctor. Trust me. With my help, you can cement your name in the history books.”

  Monica looked at them both. She was still terrified, but they weren’t crowding her. They were giving her space. They were letting her think. “If I say no?” she said.

  Galen frowned. “I’m not a violent man, Doctor Owens. But the work I’m doing is invaluable. So I won’t allow a few obstinate people, including yourself, to get in the way of my success.”

  Monica wanted to cry. Her chest felt constricted. She wanted to speak, but fear held her tongue.

  “If I can’t persuade you,” said Galen, “then perhaps someone else can.” He flipped open a cell phone and dialed. “Put
him on,” he said presently. Then he handed the cell phone to Monica.

  She put it to her ear. “Hello?” she said reluctantly.

  “Mommy?” the voice said.

  Monica’s heart skipped a beat. It was Wyatt. And he sounded very afraid.

  4

  COUNTERVIRUS

  A jeep picked up Frank in the morning and drove him to the airfield. The driver was a young, gangly enlisted man with a Southern accent and heels that clicked together when he saluted. A real by-the-booker. “Morning, sir. Help you with your bags, sir.” He must have said sir ten times before the bags were loaded into the bed of the jeep and then another two hundred times, or so it seemed, during the brief drive.

  “So where are you from?” Frank had asked.

  “Yes, sir, I’m from Tennessee.” He had his hands on the steering wheel in a ten-two position, arms stiff, eyes never leaving the road.

  “Where were you stationed before Fort Detrick?”

  “Yes, sir, I was at Fort Benning, sir.”

  And on and on with the yes sirs and the no sirs. Frank found it all slightly amusing and appreciated the momentary distraction from his concerns about his new assignment. Truth be told, he had slept little the night before. The more he considered a temporary stint with the BHA, the more uneasy he felt, even though he had no legitimate reason to feel that way.

  The BHA, or Biohazard Agency, was a relatively new federal organization. Frank knew little about it, except that it had its origins in the Epidemic Intelligence Service, a group of agents from various federal agencies like the FBI and the Centers for Disease Control. Members of the EIS had prepared and trained for biological attacks and potential epidemics. But their involvement with the EIS had not been their full-time job. They still worked as doctors or field agents or virologists or whatever else they did to pay the bills. So the EIS was like an elite club of tactical white-collar do-gooders.

  Two years ago, someone of rank and importance had decided that the duties of the EIS deserved more attention than that given by a few part-time volunteers. So the EIS was dissolved and the BHA was born. Agents of the BHA worked only for the BHA.